Brush With Death - A Near Death Experience Behind the Lens

Originally published in Western Hunter Magazine

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For as long as I can remember, grizzly bears have fascinated me. To me, they embody the Great Alaskan Wilderness in its rawest, purest form: massive, resourceful, unpredictable, and demanding respect. When the opportunity arose to join along and film a grizzly bear hunt in Alaska, I felt an excitement unlike anything I had experienced before. I had been to Alaska, both hunting and filming before — but nothing could truly prepare me for what awaited.

It was early June, springtime in Alaska, when Kurt (friend and hunter) and I flew into Anchorage. We were set to meet our guide Ray in the Anchorage airport. Ray fit the bill perfectly for an Alaskan bush guide. Average height, slender frame, with a silver mullet seemingly transformed by years in the wilderness, tucked beneath a waxed rancher hat faded from the sun. A long goatee framing a weathered face. His presence commanded a quiet authority, a sense that he had spent his life moving in tandem with the land and its fauna. If I didn't know any better, I would say he stepped straight out of an Alaskan legend passed down verbally for generations.

We made small talk while waiting for our packer, Erik — an ex-Marine chasing the final days required to earn his Assistant Guide License for the state of Alaska. He had the same drive that brought Kurt and me north: adventure, challenge, and the chance to experience something raw and real.

Flying Into the Wild

I boarded a super cub for the first time in my life. If you've never been in a super cub, it is basically a kite with a motor. I climbed into the small plane flown by Mike Meekins himself — a legend among Alaskan pilots. From the air, the Chugach Mountains swallowed us whole. Glaciers carved massive white rivers between jagged peaks, their toes melting into braided waterways below. It was cinematic in a way no lens could fully capture.

We landed far from any road on a natural runway made of river stones between the toe of a massive glacier and a glacial lake that shimmered turquoise under the sun. A place so remote it felt like a different planet. No roads. No trails. Just mountains, ice, and a valley that stretched forever.

Camp was set at the base of a lone hill, surrounded by what seemed to me as a very large, dry riverbed valley. While waiting for Mike to shuttle the remaining crew, I wandered on my own and stumbled upon two moose paddles — a thrilling find for someone who had grown up shed hunting in Kansas. Immediately, I was fixated on the possibility of finding their matches.

The Rhythm of Hunting

I had never hunted large predators before and I expected a hunt filled with more movement — trailing ridgelines, glassing streams, trekking from one vantage to the next. Confident in this assumption, I had left my binoculars behind thinking I would cut the weight through the airport and would be occupied by filming each new scene and our journey between glassing points. I would soon realize the mistake.

Each morning, we hiked just a hundred yards to the top of our hill, where we sat under a tarp and scanned a panoramic 360-degree view of mountains. Pulling a needle from this vast haystack proved painstakingly tedious. To combat boredom, I hunted for moose sheds by borrowing Kurt's binoculars and Erik's spotting scope to confirm potential finds, swapping hunting stories with the guys.

To our south towered a massive glacier. A constant wind rushed off its face that cut through layers of clothing as if they were nothing. Weather swung wildly in true Alaskan fashion. Sun, snow, and rain arrived without warning. Sunburning one moment, freezing the next. We survived on coffee and Ramen bombs — a curious yet satisfying combination of instant ramen, instant mashed potatoes, and ramen seasoning. Humble sustenance, yet perfectly suited for our long, cold days.

By day three, we had grown familiar with several cow-calf moose pairs, a set of bull moose in velvet, and a handful of black bears that appeared consistently each evening, including a sow with two cubs grazing on a hill I would later dub Beary Knoll, in honor of their repeated presence on the grassy hillside. Alaska in June barely sleeps. Bathed in near-constant light, it is a strange and exhilarating adjustment. Some nights, we glassed until 2 AM. During the midnight hour the sun painted the eastern range in glowing pinks and reds — one of the most surreal natural displays of color I've ever witnessed.

Doubts and Determination

Long hours under the tarp, fueled by caffeine and Ramen bombs, left ample time for reflection. Doubts crept in. How would I make this film compelling? How could I capture the story in a way that felt authentic and thrilling? Those questions weighed heavily. My hopes for this film were to have an action-packed, high-stakes thriller that kept viewers on the edge of their seats — showing the stakes and risks of hunting such a dangerous animal. Yet all we'd done was sit on this hill and look through binoculars.

The extended waiting also offered space to strategize and refine my vision.

On the evening of day three, something shifted. While observing the black bear sow and her cubs feeding down a landmark we called Flat Top, we saw something odd. After disappearing into the brush for some time, the sow came barreling uphill with only one cub trailing behind. Ray immediately suggested a grizzly had taken the missing cub. I was skeptical, thinking it might be a classic guide tactic to keep morale high and keep us hopeful.

The next day revealed the truth. We decided to venture over to Flat Top to shake things up, get eyes on new country, and perhaps get a shot at one of the many black bears on that side. Not far from our destination, we discovered fresh grizzly scat and tracks littered throughout the thick willows and alders. The bears had been under our noses all along, entirely hidden from view in the willow-choked river bottom.

The Grizzly Sighting

On day five, action finally came. Before we'd even finished our morning coffee, Kurt spotted a grizzly on the mountain, and then another. A breeding pair. Suddenly, our slow, measured days of observation turned electric. We faced a daunting challenge: closing the distance to get within archery range of not one, but two massive, wild predators.

I don't have much experience with bears, especially not with bears known for their aggression and their lack of fear for humans. But I do know that sneaking through head-high willow thickets as quietly as possible, trying to get within 50 yards of two of them, is not the safest or the smartest thing you can do. Not to mention I was only armed with a camera. Every step required a great deal of focus. The potential of meeting two bears face-to-face in the sea of willow branches was a very real possibility. The fear hit in waves. You fight your own mind in a situation like that. You can't help but think about worst-case scenarios and what-ifs. At times I felt as if the bears could feel my heartbeat pounding through my feet as we edged closer. But I had to refocus on the job at hand — film everything, stay quiet, and stay close.

Cresting a hill, Ray spotted a bear napping 150 yards away. Relief washed over me. We had eyes on the animals before they had eyes on us.

The Shot

It was a perfect bluebird day — the first of the trip without a constant cutting wind coming off the glacier. After careful discussion, Kurt and Ray concluded that getting within archery range undetected by both bears would be nearly impossible and opted to use Ray's rifle. In a way it was another relief, but the decision was also matched with disappointment. Part of me wanted to press on and push the limits. Could you imagine the film we could capture sneaking into bow range of two massive predators?

At this point I could only see one bear napping in the clearing below us. It was massive, and having never laid eyes on a grizzly bear so close, I couldn't tell if it was a boar or sow. We inched closer and got into a good shooting position above the sleeping bear, 100 yards or so, and waited until we could clearly identify which bear was the boar.

When the boar finally got up and walked across the clearing, it was undeniable. Immediately I understood why these creatures demand so much respect. His shoulders rolled like boulders. His head, large and wide, swayed with every step. He moved slow and with authority. I was honestly starstruck by the sheer size of this thing. Before I knew it I heard Ray tell Kurt to take the shot. The rifle cracked. The boar spun and ran into the willows.

SAVE ONE ROUND!

Silence fell over the valley. My adrenaline ebbed. I watched the bears disappear into the brush to our left through the small viewfinder of my camera and assumed they were headed far away from us. Then I heard Ray say something that immediately sent chills up my spine.

"Stand up. Stand up."

His voice was calm, but there was something beneath it that needed no translation. Instinctively, I think I was already halfway to my feet when he said it. I glanced up from my camera to see the bushes exploding with movement — willow branches thrashing from side to side. Two bears charging directly at us. I zoomed my lens as wide as it would go, hoping to catch as much action as possible while still being present. Adrenaline surged through my body like never before.

In the chaos I heard Ray instruct Kurt and Erik to save one round — making sure they were prepared for the worst-case scenario. There is a story from an episode of the MeatEater podcast that has always stuck with me. Steven Rinella and company were hunting elk somewhere and were charged by a grizzly. The group dispersed in a "cockroach effect," going off in all different directions and confusing the bear. Because of that story, I braced for a similar situation and eyed an escape route. The bears were going to clear the brush 15 to 20 yards from us, and I had no way to defend myself.

Then the sow emerged. Our eyes locked.

Her eyes weren't cold or filled with anger. They seemed almost bewildered by our presence. I remember feeling a slight sensation of comfort, reassured by the softness in her eyes. In that moment she had a decision to make. Turn and run, or keep charging.

She turned sharply, sprinting across our face toward the brush. She happened to glance back at us once more before she reached the tree line. I like to believe we were the first humans she had ever laid eyes on, and her glance back was as if to tell us to run — to get away from whatever had just happened.

Thirty Yards

The boar lay dead in the willows. Thirty yards from where we stood.

Thirty yards. That's the distance between where we celebrated and where that charge ended. The recovery felt quick — hearts still pounding, adrenaline coursing, hands trembling around my camera. We made our way to the bear and I saw him up close for the first time without a viewfinder between us. He was even more massive than I had realized. There's a difference between seeing a grizzly through a lens and standing over one. The size of his paws, the thickness of his hide, the weight of his head — it put into perspective just how small we were out there.

We celebrated. We admired the beast. We took photos and shook hands and replayed every detail of what had just happened. But even in those moments of relief, our heads stayed on a swivel. The sow was still out there. Confused, alone, and very much aware of where we were.

What I Didn't Know

We packed up all our gear, the bear, and made the two-mile hike back to camp. We cooked steaks over the fire that night, sharing each of our thoughts and perspectives on the encounter. Every man had a slightly different version of the same story — different details noticed, different fears felt, different moments that stood out. It's one of the things I love about shared experiences in the field. The same event, filtered through four different lives.

That night, I slept like a baby. The deepest, most undisturbed sleep of the entire trip. Exhaustion from the day, the adrenaline crash, the full stomach — I was out cold.

The next morning, Erik spotted fresh bear tracks some 30 yards from our tents.

The sow had trailed us two miles back to camp. She had walked past our tents in the night while we slept. While I lay there in the most peaceful sleep of the trip, a heartbroken grizzly sow was circling our camp in the dark.

Nothing on this trip will ever match the sheer terror of watching two grizzlies explode out of the willows and charge straight at us. That moment lives in a category of its own. But the tracks outside the tent unsettled me in a different way. During the charge, at least I could see it coming. At least I could react. That night, I had nothing. No awareness, no instinct, no defense. Just blind trust in the thin walls of a tent in a valley that belonged to her long before it ever belonged to us.

The Remaining Days

We still had three days in that valley before our return flight arrived. The first morning after finding the tracks, we armored up. Ray was kind enough to let me borrow his handgun. We circled our hill methodically, yelling "HEY BEAR" until our throats were raw, clearing each section of brush before we settled back into our routines. We picked up her tracks eventually — they led away from camp toward the next mountain range. Each print pointed farther from us, and with each one, the tension eased slightly.

Respect Earned

This experience transcended hunting or filmmaking. It taught patience, humility, and respect for forces far larger than oneself. I've always felt as if I had a great sense of respect for wild lands and the flora and fauna that inhabit them. After Alaska, that respect lives on a different level entirely. One I'm not sure I can fully articulate.

Grizzly bears aren't symbols. They aren't villains. They are living, breathing icons of untamed power, deserving of respect — not fear. Along with those who live, hunt, and guide alongside them, they possess a wisdom forged in the mountains, glaciers, and rivers of this incredible land.

I wanted this film to capture far more than a traditional hunting story. This wasn't about documenting a hunt in a day-by-day structure. It was about portraying the complex dance between humans and wildlife — the game of chess played across mountains, glaciers, and valleys where every decision carries weight and every movement has consequences. Each choice we made — where to step, when to observe, when to act — shaped the next moment.

At the same time, the film is about four men in a landscape so vast it humbles you. Our passions, our fears, our doubts, and our exhilaration all intersecting in that remote valley. I wanted the audience to feel the intensity of that collision — the tension of glassing under a tarp for days, the surge of adrenaline when a grizzly suddenly appears, and the quiet awe of standing face-to-face with a creature that has ruled this land far longer than we ever could.

But more than the charge, more than the shot, more than any single moment caught on camera — it's the things I didn't capture that haunt me most. The sound of willow branches I never heard. The footsteps outside my tent I slept through. The tracks in the morning that told a story the night had kept from me.

The wilderness doesn't care if you're ready. It doesn't wait for you to be watching. It moves on its own terms, in its own time, and the best you can do is earn your place in it — one day, one decision, one breath at a time.

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Chase Ryan is the filmmaker, producer and Content Director at Western Obsessions TV. Follow his work on Instagram [@chaseryan_creative]

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